“Philip,” she said, hesitating, adorable
in her embarrassment. “No! No!
No! I can’t do it that way in cold blood.
It’s got to be ’Captain
Selwyn’. . . for a while, anyway. . . .
Good-night.”

He took her outstretched hand, laughing; the usual
little friendly shake followed; then she turned gaily
away, leaving him standing before the whitening ashes.

He thought the fire was dead; but when he turned out
the lamp an hour later, under the ashes embers glowed
in the darkness of the winter morning.

CHAPTER IV

MID-LENT

“Mid-Lent, and the Enemy grins,” remarked
Selwyn as he started for church with Nina and the
children. Austin, knee-deep in a dozen Sunday
supplements, refused to stir; poor little Eileen was
now convalescent from grippe, but still unsteady on
her legs; her maid had taken the grippe, and now moaned
all day: “Mon dieu! Mon dieu!
Che fais mourir!”

Boots Lansing called to see Eileen, but she wouldn’t
come down, saying her nose was too pink. Drina
entertained Boots, and then Selwyn returned and talked
army talk with him until tea was served. Drina
poured tea very prettily; Nina had driven Austin to
vespers. The family dined at seven so Drina could
sit up; special treat on account of Boots’s
presence at table. Gerald was expected, but did
not come.

The next morning, Selwyn went downtown at the usual
hour and found Gerald, pale and shaky, hanging over
his desk and trying to dictate letters to an uncomfortable
stenographer.

So he dismissed the abashed girl for the moment, closed
the door, and sat down beside the young man.

“Go home, Gerald” he said with decision;
“when Neergard comes in I’ll tell him
you are not well. And, old fellow, don’t
ever come near the office again when you’re
in this condition.”

“I’m a perfect fool,” faltered the
boy, his voice trembling; “I don’t really
care for that sort of thing, either; but you know how
it is in that set—­”

“What set?”

“Oh, the Fanes—­the Ruthv—­”
He stammered himself into silence.

“I see. What happened last night?”

“The usual; two tables full of it. There
was a wheel, too. . . . I had no intention—­but
you know yourself how it parches your throat—­the
jollying and laughing and excitement. . . . I
forgot all about what you—­what we talked
over. . . . I’m ashamed and sorry; but I
can stay here and attend to things, of course—­”